


Action

by knockoutmouse



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Headcanon: Henchperson is autistic, Henchperson is called Rory, Hugs, Kissing in the Rain, Nonbinary Character, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Set pre-series.The theatre troupe hold a slumber party of sorts, and end up watchingoldclassic action movies.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Names
> 
> Henchperson = Rory
> 
> White-Faced Women = Jenny & Elvira
> 
> Bald Man = Arturo

The basement of Count Olaf’s mansion was only in slightly better condition than the rest of the house, and that was mainly due to the fact that Olaf rarely, if ever, ventured below the ground floor. 

Left to their own devices while Olaf locked himself in his tower studio to work on his latest play, the troupe eventually found themselves exploring the basement. 

“Hey, I didn’t know there was a TV down here,” remarked Arturo in surprise. He turned it on and began flipping through channels, but the only thing that came in was static. 

“Looks like it doesn’t pick up anything,” said Fernald. “But there is a VCR.”

“Maybe there’s some videotapes around,” suggested Jenny.

“Or Laserdiscs!” added Elvira.

“You’re right,” said Fernald. “Let’s take a look around and see what else is down here.”

As the troupe began to disperse to search the basement, Fernald caught up to Rory, who’d been unusually quiet all day.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Huh?” Rory looked at him blankly. After a moment, with some effort, they went on: “Yeah, I’m fine. I just don’t feel very much like talking today.”

Fernald nodded and took that as his cue to back off. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen them spend most of a day almost completely silent, seemingly lost in thought. He didn’t completely understand, but he knew that pressing them about it wasn’t likely to help if they didn’t want to talk. 

Soon, their expedition into the furthest reaches of the basement completed, the troupe reassembled by the TV to display their findings. 

“We found some pillows,” said Jenny, tossing several of them onto the sofa, creating a large cloud of dust. 

“And blankets.” Elvira dropped a few worn-looking afghans on top of them.

Wordlessly, Rory set down a cardboard box in front of the sofa. The twins peered down into it. 

“Wine!” they chorused.

Jenny lifted out one of the bottles. Cabernet--not Olaf’s preference, and judging by the layer of dust--and the fact that the wine was still there at all--its presence probably predated Olaf’s takeover of the mansion. 

“I found these,” said Fernald, holding up a few VHS tapes: a documentary about professional ice skating, a children’s cartoon about the French revolution, and an adaptation of _Henry VIII_. 

On any other day, Fernald thought, Rory would have responded with some remark about it being an eclectic collection, in a tone that straddled the fine line between diplomacy and sarcasm. Today, though, they said nothing, and Fernald couldn’t help but feel a tiny pang of sadness at the momentary silence that followed when he presented the videos.

“Those...don’t look very good,” said Arturo finally. “But I found these old board games in the closet.” He placed the boxes on top of the case of wine. 

“Sounds like just about everything you’d need for a good time,” murmured Fernald. He’d meant it sarcastically, but the idea seemed to catch on.

“Like a party,” said Jenny.

“Or a sleepover,” added Elvira. 

“That actually doesn’t sound half bad,” mused Arturo. “We could go rent a couple of decent videos, have a few drinks…”

Fernald glanced over at Rory. “What do you think?”

“Sure,” they said with a shrug. 

Fernald nodded. “Let’s do it.”

“We’ll clean up the basement,” said Jenny.

“Make it nice and cozy,” said Elvira, nodding.

“I can, like...figure out some food or something,” said Rory vaguely, waving in the general direction of the kitchen. 

“How about you and me go to the video store?” Arturo suggested to Fernald. 

“Actually, why don’t you go ahead?” said Fernald. “I can help out here, and besides, I should check in with the boss.”

With that, the troupe separated again. Fernald crept up to Olaf’s studio and found, as he’d expected (perhaps even as he’d hoped) that Olaf had fallen asleep, slumped over his desk, an empty wine bottle next to his typewriter.

Careful not to wake him, Fernald eased the door closed, descended the stairs, and made his way to the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

Fernald arrived in the kitchen just in time to see Rory sliding a sheet of cookies into the oven. 

“You made cookies?” said Fernald in disbelief. The last time he had tried to cook in Olaf’s kitchen, he’d been left struggling to figure out what to do with the only ingredients he’d been able to find: a pot of honey, a jar of olives, and, rather perplexingly, a small heap of fresh artichokes. “How did you manage that?”

“I _can_ cook a little,” said Rory acidly. “I’m not totally useless all the time.”

“What? No,” said Fernald. “That isn’t what I meant. The boss doesn’t go grocery shopping very often--normally there’s hardly anything to cook _with_. That’s actually pretty impressive.”

“Sorry,” said Rory. “I guess I thought…” They trailed off and shook their head. “I know you wouldn’t say something like that.”

Silence descended upon the kitchen.

“What kind are they?” Fernald asked eventually, nodding in the direction of the oven. 

“Huh? Oh. Just sugar cookies,” they said. “You’re right, there wasn’t very much to work with.” 

“There never is,” said Fernald. “Besides wine,” he added without thinking.

Rory actually smiled at that. Fernald was quite relieved to see this, even though he hadn’t even realized that he’d been worried until then.

Soon, the two of them returned to the basement, Fernald bearing a plate of sugar cookies and Rory with a corkscrew and a set of cracked teacups, the only drinking vessels they’d been able to locate in the cupboards. 

The twins had made the basement, or at least the area around the sofa, far more pleasant, simply by dusting and arranging some blankets and pillows, and they’d found a few empty crates to serve as an improvised coffee table.

“Wow, this looks so much better,” said Fernald, and Rory nodded in agreement. 

“What shall we do--” began Jenny.

“--until Arturo comes back?” finished Elvira.

Without waiting for a reply, the twins looked at each other and chorused, “Let’s play a game!”

“There’s Snakes and Ladders--” said Jenny.

“That’s a children’s game,” protested Fernald.

“And its purpose is to indoctrinate players with the values of an inherently oppressive framework of hegemonic morality,” added Rory. 

“That too,” said Fernald.

“--and Monopoly--” said Elvira.

“Which glorifies capitalism while forcing the player to traumatically relive class struggle, wage stagnation, and housing insecurity,” said Rory. 

“Plus it takes forever,” Fernald agreed.

“--and Trivial Pursuit,” said Jenny, perhaps a bit desperately.

Before anyone could object to that, the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Arturo called down, “I’m back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody knows it isn't a party until you break out the board games and critical theory


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sort of goes against the whole deliberately-anachronistic-time-period thing, so...yeah.
> 
> Also, I guess spoiler warning for _A View to a Kill_ even though it came out in the 80s?

Arturo reached the bottom of the stairs and held up a stack of rented videotapes. “I got _Die Hard_ , _Lethal Weapon_ , and _A View to a Kill_.”

“Ooh, action films!” exclaimed Jenny.

“Sounds violent!” said Elvira approvingly.

“Never would have guessed _that_ from the titles,” Rory murmured. 

“Maybe there’ll be blood,” said Jenny hopefully.

“And explosions!” added Elvira.

“And men taking their shirts off!” said Jenny.

Fernald also agreed, in his head at least, that all of those things would be nice, although it would probably take a few glasses of wine before he’d admit it out loud. 

Elvira turned on the VCR while Rory poured wine and Jenny lit a few candles which had been strategically placed around the room. Arturo glanced at the sofa, seemed to make some mental calculations, and ventured into the further reaches of the basement, returning a moment later dragging a rather threadbare armchair.

“That’s not going to fit five people,” he said by way of explanation, waving a hand at the sofa. 

Fernald found himself left with nothing to do except turn out the lights. 

Elvira started the video. Arturo accepted a teacup of wine with a skeptical look, and took a seat in his armchair. The others piled onto the sofa--the twins together at one end, Rory keeping their distance at the other, and Fernald in the center with room to spare. 

“What are we watching?” asked Fernald. 

“ _A View to a Kill_ ,” said Elvira.

“James Bond,” sighed Jenny adoringly.

The film opened immediately with the secret agent digging in the snow to reveal a dead body. 

“Why is he taking a heart-shaped locket off that dead guy?” asked Rory. “Was that, like... his boyfriend?”

“I don’t think James Bond usually has boyfriends,” said Fernald gently, hoping not to disappoint them too much.

“It’s spy stuff,” explained Arturo. “The locket is hiding...I think a microchip, something like that. I watched this once a long time ago.”

Then the KGB agents appeared and the chase sequence proper began. The troupe fell silent--first watching the action, and then watching in disbelief. 

“I didn’t know that James Bond could snowboard,” said Fernald finally. 

“Of course he can!” said Jenny. 

“James Bond can do anything,” added Elvira. 

Soon after came the standard visit to headquarters for some plot exposition about technology and the Cold War. 

“Why does he keep sexually harassing his boss’s secretary?” asked Rory. “And why do they let him get away with it?”

“Moneypenny and Bond always flirt with each other,” objected Arturo. 

“It is a staple of the franchise,” agreed Fernald. “Although, yeah, now that you point it out, it’s not like she’s really in a position to reject it.”

When the villain and his henchwoman first appeared on screen, all conversation among the troupe paused.

“She’s beautiful,” said Arturo at last. 

“Stunning,” said Jenny.

“Gorgeous,” said Elvira. 

“While I’m sure the actress also has admirable qualities beyond her appearance,” said Rory, “I have to agree that she is very attractive.”

Fernald nodded. Even though he rarely found himself attracted to women, he couldn’t deny her striking appearance. 

The subject was revisited a short time later, when Bond arrived at the villain’s estate, pretending to be a wealthy horse-racing enthusiast, and the henchwoman rebuffed his less-than-subtle advances.

“Wait, so is she actually his girlfriend, or does she just work for him?” Rory wondered aloud. 

“I wish she was _my_ girlfriend,” murmured Arturo. 

“Me too,” said Elvira, and Fernald nearly choked on his wine. 

A good deal of the middle of the film seemed to consist of Bond repeatedly rescuing a blonde woman whose two favorite pastimes appeared to be dangling from perilous heights and screaming “ _James!_ ”

At that point, Rory sat up and reached past Fernald to pour themselves another glass--well, another teacup--of wine. They tilted the bottle toward him in question. He nodded, and they refilled his cup as well. 

Fernald couldn’t help noticing that when they sat back, they didn’t retreat all the way back to the edge of the sofa. In fact--yes, he realized, as Bond and the blonde woman bluffed their way into the villain’s mining operation, Rory had definitely moved closer. There was no physical contact between the two of them, but they were close enough that Fernald could feel their warmth, and he found himself hoping that they might come closer still. Then again, perhaps he was simply reading far too much into an innocuous action. 

Soon after, the villain detonated explosives to flood his mines while his workers were still inside, and began firing a machine gun at the ones trying to escape. 

“I know this probably wasn’t the filmmakers’ intent,” said Rory, “but this scene feels like a perfect metaphor for capitalism.” 

Moments later, when the villain swooped down in his airship to snatch up the hapless love interest, Fernald couldn’t help but ask, “Really?”

“Shouldn’t she hear him?” asked Jenny.

“At least by the time he gets that close?” added Elvira.

“That does seem a little absurd,” Rory agreed. 

Was Fernald imagining it, or had they inched closer to him in the dark?

“You guys,” said Arturo in exasperation. “It’s just a movie. Besides, they have to have the airship to get to the final fight scene. It’s pretty great, by the way,” he added. “I bet you’ll change your mind when you see it.”

That wasn’t a bet Fernald would have taken, and in fact he did not change his mind. The climactic fight took place atop the Golden Gate Bridge, with the villain wielding a fire ax. He refrained from commenting, however, because he had finally worked up the courage to move closer to Rory. Not excessively close, but enough to be noticeable, enough for them to move away if they wanted. 

They didn’t move away, but when Fernald glanced over and caught their eye, their expression was as enigmatic as ever.

“More wine?” suggested Jenny, to general approval, so she opened a new bottle and began to top off everyone’s drinks. To Fernald’s surprise, Rory rested a hand against his shoulder as they leaned past him to give her their cup. Even though the touch only lasted for a second, Fernald’s heart was still racing when they sank back into the cushions next to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: In this chapter they watch _Lethal Weapon_ , which involves suicide and 1980s-typical attitudes about mental health.
> 
> This story was supposed to be fluffy and humorous, but it sort of got dark

The first film ended, and Jenny switched the videotape for a new one. 

“Which one now?” asked Fernald. 

“ _Lethal Weapon_ ,” she replied. 

“It’s even more violent,” said Arturo cheerfully. He caught sight of the cookies next to the wine and tried one. “Hey, Fernald, your cookies are pretty good.”

“Actually, I didn’t make them,” said Fernald quickly, and nodded toward Rory. “They did.” He knew they wouldn’t correct him themselves, not today.

“My mistake.’ He turned to Rory. “ _Your_ cookies are good.”

“Thanks,” they murmured. “It’s not a big deal.”

Even so, Fernald was glad to see that they relaxed a little at that, not shrinking into themselves quite as much. 

“You should make cupcakes next time,” said Jenny.

“He makes cupcakes,” said Elvira with a wave toward Fernald.

“They’re very good,” added Jenny.

“But yours might be better,” said Elvira.

“We could have a baking contest,” said Jenny.

“And then there would be twice as many cupcakes,” said Elvira.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Arturo. “I wouldn’t--” He broke off, distracted by the nude woman on the TV. Although no one had been paying much attention to the opening of the film, they all fell silent and watched the woman slowly make her way to the balcony of her highrise apartment, climb onto the railing, and jump.

Then the scene switched to one of the lead detectives being surprised in the bath by his family bringing him a cake and singing to him.

“Okay, so he definitely dies, right? He’s for sure going to get killed,” said Fernald. 

“How tragic,” said Jenny.

“Dramatic irony,” added Elvira. 

“You guys,” said Arturo. “He’s the hero. He doesn’t get killed. It doesn’t get _that_ dark. I mean, this isn’t _Robocop_.”

“Robocop doesn’t die at the end either,” objected Fernald. “Wait, or does he? I don’t remember.”

“Of course Robocop doesn’t die,” said Arturo. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But it’s still cynical and bleak,” said Fernald, and turned to Rory in the hope they’d back him up. “Right?”

They shrugged. “I have no idea. Action’s not really my thing.”

“Oh my,” said Jenny.

“Goodness!” said Elvira. 

Fernald turned his attention back to the screen, and found that the scene had switched to a new character, the younger detective. He, too, was naked, and also seemed to believe that beer and cigarettes constituted a healthy breakfast. Fernald found the sudden nudity more startling than anything, but he also wasn’t paying particularly close attention, because he’d managed to find the nerve to move closer to Rory again. They’d almost certainly crept closer as well, and now their knee brushed against his. Neither of them moved away. 

Fernald glanced nervously at Arturo and the twins. They all seemed engrossed in the film, none of them paying any particular attention to what he was doing. He told himself to calm down--it wasn’t as if any of them had any right to object even if they did see anything. 

On the screen, the older detective investigated the crime scene of the suicide from the opening sequence. As he questioned a witness, Fernald debated about doing something as cliche as stretching out an arm along the back of the sofa. He was spared the decision, though, when Rory finally closed the distance between them and rested their head against Fernald’s shoulder. 

Perhaps--perhaps they were just tired. Perhaps it didn’t mean anything. No, Fernald reminded himself, they’d deliberately avoided being close to anyone only a short time ago. This was definitely on purpose. He just didn’t know how to handle that--he wasn’t used to being flirted with, or--or having someone make _advances_. He wasn’t exactly sure if this counted as an advance per se, but--

On the screen, the younger detective recklessly carried out a dangerous drug bust in a Christmas tree lot, shouting at one of the criminals to shoot him when he was taken hostage. 

Right, Fernald decided. Enough internal debate. He shifted slightly to free his arm, and placed it over Rory’s shoulders. It occurred to him to ask whether they minded, but before he spoke, they gave a tiny sigh and snuggled closer, relaxing against him. That answered that question. 

Now the scene in the film had changed again, the tone becoming more serious. The younger detective sat at home alone, looking at a picture of his dead wife, then loaded his gun and pressed the barrel to his forehead.

Fernald felt Rory grow tense against him. He glanced over, but couldn’t guess what they were thinking. 

On screen, the man seemed to change his mind, and placed the gun in his mouth instead. The music intensified.

Rory hid their face against Fernald’s shoulder, their hand finding his arm and grasping at his sleeve. When Fernald thought about it, it made a certain kind of sense that Rory was the sort of person to cover their eyes during the scary parts of a movie--although this particular scene wasn’t exactly what he thought of as scary. 

The detective set aside the gun and began to cry. 

“You know,” said Arturo, “I’ve always thought this scene was a little overdone.”

“Too dramatic?” asked Elvira. 

“Not subtle?” suggested Jenny. 

“Yeah,” agreed Arturo. 

Fernald didn’t say anything. At least, not to them. When the scene ended and moved back to the police precinct, he whispered to Rory, “Hey, it’s over.”

They looked back up and seemed to relax a little--though it didn’t last for long. The police captain now argued with a psychiatrist about whether the detective really was suicidal. The captain snapped unsympathetically that they’d find out if he killed himself after all. 

Rory stared blankly at the TV without acknowledging Fernald’s questioning glance. He wasn’t sure why, but he followed his instincts and pulled them closer to him, closing his arms around them. They leaned against him again, and he could feel their breath against his throat. Fernald had always found that a particularly sensitive spot, but he tried not to react noticeably. He had the very strong urge to kiss them. Still, that might not be the best idea under the circumstances, in front of all their coworkers and during a film that was turning out to be quite depressing indeed. Besides, they seemed to be in a strange mood that he couldn’t quite read.

The two detectives were assigned as partners, which neither of them seemed to be happy about. Right away, they were called to the scene of another suicide attempt--this time, a man on the roof of a tall building. The younger detective rescued the man on the roof with a dangerous stunt, and immediately after, began to argue with his partner.

The troupe watched the tense scene in silence. The elder detective berated his partner for his irresponsible behavior and demanded to know whether he really wanted to die--then he gave him his gun and urged him to shoot himself.

Then, to Fernald’s surprise, Rory pulled away from him and sat up. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

“ _Go ahead if you’re serious!_ ” the detective shouted, only to snatch away the gun away from the other man at the last instant. 

Fernald was still trying to figure out what was going on when Rory rose from the sofa and left the room without a word.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I take some liberties with Olaf's backyard 
> 
> This chapter continues the topic of suicidal thoughts

Everything was fine, Fernald told himself. Of course it was. Rory would return in a minute or two. They’d probably only left to visit the restroom or something equally innocuous. The others certainly hadn’t paid any particular attention to their departure, so he was probably only imagining the suddenness with which they’d walked out--the sense that there was something just slightly _off_ in their manner.

Still, Fernald grew more and more anxious. Although in reality only a few minutes had passed, to him it felt like much longer. 

No--he trusted his instincts. Something was definitely not right, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He had the uneasy feeling that he shouldn’t even have waited this long. 

Fernald stood quietly and slipped away up the stairs. Arturo and the twins were so caught up in the film that they didn’t seem to notice him leave.

Upstairs, his anxiety blossomed as he failed to find Rory in the kitchen, in the living room--in _any_ of the rooms. Surely they wouldn’t have gone upstairs, not without turning on any lights. Growing frantic, he rushed through the downstairs rooms again. There--the door leading into the backyard stood slightly ajar. 

He hurried over to the doorway and paused at the threshold, overtaken by a sudden feeling of dread. _Nonsense_ , he told himself firmly, and stepped outside. 

It was dark--naturally, being night. The lamplight in the living room window provided the only source of illumination, and it was dimmed by the thick film of dust on the glass. Fernald ventured further into the overgrown garden, a word which here means “the shambles of dead rosebushes, untrimmed hedges, and creeping vines that had been neglected for some time.”

To his immense relief, Fernald found Rory sitting on a crumbling stone bench beneath the branches of a gnarled oak tree. He made his way to them, fallen twigs cracking underfoot. It was raining, too. Although it was only a drizzle, each drop of rain was cold and sharp.

Fernald threaded his way through overgrown box hedges, stepped over the remains of a broken bird bath, and found that he had absolutely no idea what to say or how to begin. 

“Mind if I join you?” he asked finally. 

Wordlessly, Rory moved to one side, giving him room to sit down, so he did. The two of them sat in silence for a moment. Fernald was grateful for the tree--it provided some shelter from the rain. Next to him, Rory seemed to gaze into the distance, though the night wasn’t clear enough to see the stars. 

“Are you okay?” asked Fernald finally. 

The pause before Rory answered seemed to go on forever. Finally they said, “I don’t know.”

“What happened back there?” he asked gently. “Did I do something wrong?”

They shook their head. “No. You didn’t do anything.”

“Was it the video?”

For a moment, Rory didn’t answer, and only looked up at the empty night sky. Then, finally, they turned to Fernald and asked, “Have you ever thought about killing yourself?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussion of suicide

Rory’s words chilled him, but Fernald forced himself to answer honestly. “Yes.”

They turned to him with a look of newly awakened curiosity, or perhaps it was hope. “You do understand, then.”

He wasn’t sure if he did. “I used to think about it a lot,” he went on, and raised his hooks, “after this happened.”

They quickly dropped their gaze and began to twine their fingers into their necklace, twisting the strand of beads. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have--” They broke off.

“It’s okay,” said Fernald. “It was a long time ago. And it was just--just thoughts, I guess.”

“You’re better now though, right?”

“I would say so,” answered Fernald cautiously. “At least, I never think about it any more. Or almost never,” he added conscientiously. 

The two lapsed into silence. The rain fell harder, dripping from the leaves of the oak tree onto Fernald’s head, a thoroughly unpleasant sensation. He wanted to go back inside, but it seemed important to finish the conversation.

He didn’t want to ask the obvious question, but forced himself to press on anyway. “Do _you_ think about it?”

“Sometimes,” said Rory. 

Fernald wasn’t surprised by their answer, since they’d been the one to bring up the subject, but it still shocked him a little to hear them actually say it. 

“I don’t very much, anymore,” they went on, gazing at something in the distance, speaking conversationally as if discussing the weather. “Not usually. I’ve just been having a really hard time today and I don’t know why, but that makes it harder to shut it out when I start thinking about that kind of thing.”

Fernald nodded sympathetically. He sensed that they hadn’t finished yet, so he merely listened. 

“And somehow I just couldn’t handle sitting there, watching that, and knowing that people really used to think that way, and some still do. And listening to the others debating whether it’s realistic, when--” They broke off and shook their head. “I know they don’t mean any harm. It isn’t real to _them_.”

After another moment, Rory said, “I tried it once, you know.”

“Tried--?” He must have misunderstood, they must have switched topics and he’d gotten off track, somehow, because--

“To kill myself.”

“No!” he burst out.

“I did,” they said placidly, as if he’d really been denying that it had happened. “It didn’t work.”

“I’m glad,” said Fernald. “That it didn’t work, I mean. Obviously.”

“Really?” The way their eyes widened as they asked the question, the sincere _surprise_ in their voice--that was what made Fernald feel as if his heart had split in two. 

He didn’t stop to think about it, didn’t consider whether he should ask permission--instead, acting purely on emotion, he threw his arms around them, drawing them in close. By the time it occurred to him to question whether Rory would welcome this kind of affection right now, they held onto him tightly, answering the question for him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussion of suicide

It was a long time before the two gradually let go of each other.

“Sorry,” said Rory. “I know you mean it, really.”

Fernald touched their hand with his hook, and managed to only barely feel self-conscious about it. “Hey,” he said, “Everyone needs reassurance sometimes.” 

They nodded, seemingly in agreement, then frowned. “I still shouldn’t have brought it up. Now I’ve made you sad too, and it’s not as if I’ve ever had any reason for wanting to--you know. Not a _real_ reason. Not like--” They glanced over at Fernald and paused for a second, embarrassed. “I mean, some people have actual problems. My only problem was not being able--not being strong enough--to control what’s going on inside my head.”

“Shh,” said Fernald gently, “none of that. Any reason that makes you feel that way is real enough. It has nothing to do with being strong or weak. And I know you know that already, but sometimes it helps to be reminded.”

Rory placed a hand on Fernald’s forearm and gave him a very brief, very small smile that wasn’t entirely free of sadness. “Thanks,” they said quietly

The two of them were silent for what felt like a long time. Rainwater continued to drip down from the leaves overhead. 

“You’re not thinking of hurting yourself now, are you?” asked Fernald. 

“No.” A simple statement of fact, showing neither surprise nor offense at the question. 

“I just wanted to check.”

“I appreciate it.” Their grip on his arm tightened slightly, and he recognized this as a gesture of affection. 

“Come on,” said Fernald. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

They rose from the bench together and made their way back to the house. Inside the living room, in the light, with the rain reduced to a soothing, rhythmic patter against the roof, the darkness--the rawness--of the conversation in the garden seemed to recede. 

“Do you feel up to going back in there?” Fernald asked, indicating the basement door. 

“Not really. But I don’t really want to be alone right now, either. I’m not going to _do_ anything,” Rory assured him hurriedly, “I just...it helps to have someone to talk to.”

Fernald nodded. “We can go somewhere else, if you like.”

“If you’d rather stay here--” they began, but Fernald shook his head. 

“I’d rather spend time with you,” he said. “It doesn’t matter where.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I’ll go let the others know we’re leaving. You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Fernald asked cautiously. 

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. Just…” Rory hesitated. “Don’t tell them what’s really going on?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I was just going to say you weren’t feeling well and I’m taking you home. Is that all right?”

They nodded gratefully. 

Fernald went downstairs, quickly whispered this explanation to the others, and returned to the living room. “Shall we go?”

The two left by the front door and stood for a moment in the quiet, rainwashed street. It was still dark, save for the streetlamps, and the rain had lightened to a weak drizzle. 

“Where are we going?” asked Rory after a moment. 

“Where do you want to go?” countered Fernald. “Your place, my place, somewhere else entirely? We could get another drink, or a cup of tea--er, coffee for you,” he corrected. 

“I want to go home,” said Rory quietly. 

They rode the trolley to the Beverage District, sitting close together on the hard wooden seat. As the trolley carried them closer to the ocean, the rain condensed into fog, permeating the air with a heavy, wet chill. Rory inched closer to Fernald, and he slid an arm around their shoulders. 

“Is this all right?” he asked. 

“Definitely,” they said. “In case you didn’t notice, I was pretty into it before.”

“That doesn’t mean you feel the same way now,” he pointed out, and to his surprise, Rory embraced him suddenly. Fernald thought he’d only stated an obvious truth, and wasn’t sure that he understood their response, but he certainly wasn’t going to object.

For the rest of the trolley ride, they kept stealing glances at him, looking as if they were about to speak, but then keeping silent. They didn’t let go of him until they’d reached their stop. The rain began to pick up again as the two climbed down into the street.

For a time, the world seemed to consist of nothing but rain and shades of darkness which, in a different light, might be distinguishable as stone or brick or asphalt. They crossed an open plaza, during the day populated by beverage vendors, coffee carts, patrons of the nearby cafes, but now deserted. The two of them were absolutely alone. 

As they reached the far edge of the plaza, Rory stopped under a streetlamp. Its dim glow was no match for the cloudy night sky that seemed to crowd around any light source and simply absorb it. The pavement shone wet and black; the rain fell hard in the darkness surrounding them. 

Fernald didn’t know why they’d stopped here. “What is it?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Fernald nodded, and they did.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're starting to get back to fluff

For a brief moment, as his lips met theirs, the chill of the rain faded away. Rory reached up to touch Fernald’s face, palm warm against his cheek, and he closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the comfort of it. 

Then the warmth was gone, and Fernald opened his eyes to find Rory looking at him questioningly.

He smiled, and couldn’t entirely keep the amusement out of his voice as he asked, “You couldn’t wait until we were out of the rain?”

“No,” said Rory, and kissed him again. This time, though, it ended much sooner. 

“Okay, I do want to keep doing that,” they said, “but it is really cold out here.”

Fernald agreed, and followed Rory a short distance through the dark streets, over the cobblestones, and up a flight of stairs to their apartment. Inside, he hung back in the doorway as they switched on a few lamps, trying to minimize the amount of water he dripped onto their floor. They were both drenched from the rain, so there wasn’t much Fernald could do to prevent it, but he at least tried to drip apologetically. 

Now he looked around. With the low light and the rain pouring down outside, the small room felt cozy, comforting. 

“Come on,” said Rory, beckoning Fernald to follow them into the next room. There was barely room for two people in the tiny hallway, so Fernald stood in the bathroom doorway as Rory took towels from the linen cupboard. They tossed one to him, and he gratefully began to dry his face. The towels were soft and fluffy, much nicer than the ones he had at home. 

Rory finished drying themselves and shook their now-tousled hair from their face. “You’re soaked,” they said in concern, as if they’d just noticed. 

“So are you,” Fernald pointed out. 

“Let me find you something to change into.” They disappeared into the bedroom. Fernald stayed put--at least the water wouldn’t do much damage to the tile floor where he stood now.

“I don’t have a ton of men’s clothing,” they called apologetically from the bedroom. “I mean, not like pajamas or anything. Give me a second.”

“Anything’s fine,” said Fernald, and mostly meant it. He’d feel a bit silly if he ended up in a dress, but he also thought, at the back of his mind, perhaps his automatic reaction to the idea was something he needed to think through a bit more. At a later time. Right now, he was more concerned with the fact that he was soaking wet and growing increasingly cold. Actually, a dress didn’t sound so bad anymore, as long as it was dry. 

Before long, Rory returned with clothes for him, and Fernald tried not to shiver too noticeably as he took them and shut the door. He quickly stripped off his wet clothing and dried off, but still his skin felt clammy. 

They’d brought him a t-shirt, some flannel pajama pants, and a fleece bathrobe. Getting into the dry clothes was a relief, and he immediately began to feel warmer. 

When he emerged from the bathroom, Fernald found Rory in the kitchen, making tea. They’d changed, too--into a floral print nightgown that clashed hideously with their tartan bathrobe, to say nothing of the bunny slippers they were wearing. 

“You didn’t want tea when I offered,” Fernald joked. 

“That was before we got caught in the rain,” they said, then frowned. “And also, I didn’t want to go somewhere. Not where I’d have to talk to other people. I’m just not feeling up to it.”

“It’s all right, love. I was only teasing,” said Fernald gently. 

“Oh. Right,” Rory said distantly. “Sorry. Sometimes I can’t…” They trailed off and shook their head.

Fernald’s heart sank. They really were having a hard time today, but somehow he didn’t think it would help for him to point it out. Instead, he went to them where they stood in the too-small kitchen before the stove and wrapped his arms around their waist. Rory relaxed at that, finally, sinking into his embrace and resting their forehead against his shoulder as Fernald lightly rubbed their back. 

The two stayed that way until disturbed by the kettle’s shrill whistle.


	10. Chapter 10

Fernald returned to the living room with a cup of chamomile tea and sank onto the sofa. The cushions were soft, and his body was heavy with fatigue after the long day and the walk through the rain. He gratefully took a sip of his tea.

Rory joined him, and after the briefest hesitation, leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. “Sorry for making you stand out in the rain.”

“I didn’t really mind,” Fernald assured them quickly. “Especially since it meant getting to kiss you.”

“I was really nervous,” they confessed. “I kept hoping you’d kiss me, but it seemed like you weren’t going to, and at first I didn’t know if I’d misunderstood, but then I thought…” They trailed off with a slight frown, then seemed to remember their tea, took a drink, and set down their cup.

“You understood perfectly well,” said Fernald. “But you’re right. I probably wouldn’t have.”

When Rory looked at him in hurt confusion, he quickly added, “I _wanted_ to. I’ve wanted to all night. Only after earlier, I thought it might be taking advantage. I know it can be hard to tell someone no if you’re already feeling down,” he explained. “I was going to wait, to be sure nothing happened until--unless--you wanted it to.”

“That’s--that’s really--” They didn’t bother to finish the sentence, and just hugged him instead. Fernald rested his head against their shoulder, and the two of them stayed that way for some time. 

He only realized he’d begun to doze off when Rory stirred and nudged him. 

“You’re falling asleep.”

Fernald sat up, but couldn’t suppress a yawn. “I am. I should go.”

“You could...you could stay if you want,” said Rory, fidgeting with the hem of their bathrobe, not quite meeting his eyes. “You know, since it’s still raining. But I know you’d probably rather go home.”

“I don’t mind at all,” said Fernald. Staying there sounded much more pleasant than venturing back out into the rain and darkness. “This couch is actually pretty comfortable. Maybe more than my actual bed.”

“Oh. Good,” they answered absently, then, after a moment, finally looked up at Fernald. “You know, if--if you want to, you could come to bed with me. No pressure, though,” they added.

“What do _you_ want?” asked Fernald. 

Rory looked almost as if they didn’t understand the question. “What I want? I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s okay to ask for things. If something’s too much, I’ll say so. You trust me to be honest with you, right?”

Rory nodded. 

“So tell me.”

“I want--please stay with me. I mean, I’m not trying to, like, have sex with you right now, but I need someone to be there next to me. Not _someone_ ,” they corrected themselves. “You.”

“Of course, sweetheart. I’d like that too.”

 

A short time later, the two of them climbed under the covers in the dark bedroom and lay in each others’ arms. 

“Fernald?”

“What is it?”

“Thanks for understanding, and just, you know, being cool about things.”

Fernald turned his head to nuzzle against their shoulder. “It’s only decency, love,” he murmured. “I care about you and I want you to feel better.”

“I do,” they said, and held him closer. “This feels nice,” they murmured sleepily. “Feels...safe.”

It wasn’t long before both of them drifted off to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the previous chapter was meant to be the end, but I forgot to mark it complete, so here's one last chapter!

Fernald drifted slowly back to consciousness, aware only of being extremely comfortable. Gradually, the events of the previous night came back to him. He was still in Rory’s apartment--in their bed, in fact. And they were still there beside him, and that was their arm draped loosely over his chest. 

He was determined not to open his eyes, not to move, to let this moment go on as long as it could. 

“Fernald?” Rory whispered. 

So much for that plan.

He blinked sleepily. “Hmm?”

“Are you awake? 

He gave up on not moving, and turned over to face them. “I am now.”

They didn’t move away, and instead began to lightly rub his back. He must have made a sound of satisfaction, because they increased their pressure, moving up, fingers pressing in between his shoulderblades, massaging his still sleep-stiff muscles. 

“Oh my god,” he murmured.

“Too hard?”

“Not at all.”

Then, too soon, they stopped, leaning over to kiss the top of his head before they sat up. “I have an important question.”

“What’s that?” He wondered if it had to do with the night before--they’d had some pretty heavy conversations. Or maybe they’d decided it was too soon to share a bed after all. 

“How do you like your coffee?” Rory asked seriously.

For a moment, Fernald couldn’t make sense of the question. Then he did, but he still didn’t understand, and could only stare for a moment. “What?”

“How do you like your coffee made? French press, pour over, Turkish, espresso--I can’t do real espresso, but I have a moka pot--”

“Whoa, whoa, I don’t know what any of those are,” protested Fernald. “When I drink coffee, I just...drink coffee? Like, regular coffee?” he asked, beginning to feel quite out of his depth. 

“You don’t know about coffee?” they asked, mock horror in their voice, but their eyes had lit up with an intensity he’d never seen from them before. “ _Let me tell you._ ”

The next thing he knew, Rory had thrown off the blankets and taken him by the arm, leading him into the kitchen as they began to explain the difference between pressure extraction versus filtration brewing methods. Now they’d turned on the flame under the teakettle, and started disassembling something called a moka pot and explaining how it worked. Finally, when they got to the subject of optimal brew temperature, they paused. 

“What is it?” they asked. “How come you’re smiling like that?”

“You seem like you’re feeling better this morning,” said Fernald. 

“I am. I’ll be even better once the coffee’s ready,” said Rory, then looked a bit sheepish. “I’ve been talking too much. I know you don’t really care about all this.”

“No, love,” said Fernald gently, “I want you to tell me all about it.”


End file.
